


Crave

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rehab, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Arthur still maintains he was not an addict. To anything but cigarettes. But he acknowledges that he might have had problems with alcohol. He still takes Xanax on occasion, when he really is anxious and afraid, but he is very careful to take only what he needs.





	Crave

 

Arthur is not an addict. He isn’t. And not in the way an addict denies being addicted, or someone claims they were addicted and now they aren’t. He really is not an addict. He smokes, not because of a compulsion or this innate need or an itch beneath his skin; he smokes because he is bored, because he likes the aesthetic of it, because his fingers twitch with the need to do something and his mouth is empty and the day is clouded and his heart is lonely. He drinks causally, and when he drinks he needs something to ease the buzz, and when he maybe takes an extra Xanax it is because his job is a nightmare and running code can be tedious. But he is not an addict and he doesn’t need help to quit and honestly, the next person to tell him he is an addict is going to get a cigarette between the eyes.

Merlin is an addict. Arthur knows this. Merlin shows up to the same corner every day, twitchy and exhausted. He always bums a cigarette off Arthur, and drinks whatever warm beer he can filch from the patrons of the bar. When Merlin takes Xanax, it is because he hasn’t slept in three days and he has only eaten whatever crap someone left on the tube and he is out of cigarettes because he smoked his pack in a day and Arthur won’t share and he has no money because Merlin spends it, get this, on cigarettes and booze and the shit-hole of a shoe box he calls an apartment. Sometimes he takes a Xanax because he stares at code all day and when he can’t get a line right in drives him mad and he spirals into in a frantic need to make it work until his hyperventilating and crying and screaming, but mostly he takes it because he likes the empty feeling it gives him. Weightless.

Arthur thinks it is ironic that Merlin is telling him to go to rehab.

“Don’t you have a corner to work, Merlin?”

Merlin, bruised eyes and week old scruff on his face, merely blinks at him. “You screwed up the Caerleon code. Twice. In an hour.” He bounces, fingers fluttering at his hips, searching, Arthur knows, for a cigarette.

Arthur scoffs. “What’s it to you? I fixed it.”

Merlin growls a little and rocks. “After I told you. I can’t do my code and your code mate.”

Arthur scratches at his own beard and grinds his teeth. He pulls a cigarette out and holds it between his teeth, but doesn’t light it. He’s already smoked two today, and he hasn’t had lunch. Merlin knows this, knows his habits, so deft fingers snatch it from his lips and before Arthur can breathe out Merlin has it lit.

“That’s… harassment, you know.” Arthur contemplates grabbing another, but instead he nibbles the skin around his thumb.

“Is it? Report me.” Merlin seems unconcerned, inhaling deeply, shadowed-eyes fluttering shut. He exhales right into Arthur’s face. He knows Arthur won’t, can’t. Smoking is prohibited on and surrounding LeFay Industries, and half-brother or not, Morgana would fire him in a heartbeat. He grabs the cigarette and in a moment of irrationality snuffs it out. Merlin, unbothered as ever, dips his fingers into Arthur’s pocket, deftly filching another one. He raises a single brow as it to challenge Arthur.

“I am not an addict.”

Merlin shrugs. “Don’t care if you are or aren’t, pal. But you need to see someone.”

Arthur huffs, and steals his cigarette back taking a long drag. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to say I am addicted to?”

Again Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t go for the cigarette again. Instead he fishes a little white pill out of his pocket and sticks it under his tongue, grimacing at the bitter taste. “Don’t know. Porn. Cheddar Balls. Eating lint from the dryer. Don’t actually care. Just take a break, sort your issues and come back to work not screwing up every other day.”

Arthur shifts, rankled. “And what about you?”

Merlin blinks at him and Arthur really wants to strangle him. He’s built like a bird, so it wouldn’t take much strength. Already Arthur can see the fog clouding his eyes, and he knows that Merlin had already taken a pill before confronting him. “Hm?”

Arthur waves his hand. “Cigarettes and booze and pills. Same shit as me, but more. You can’t even afford food, and we make the same salary.” He points at his own tailored suit, then at Merlin’s day old shirt, too small pants, and holey converse. Merlin rolls his eyes. “The first step is admitting you have a problem. I have several. I’m already ahead of you.”

Arthur grunts and sucks hard on the cigarette. If he notices Merlin flush, just a hint as he hollows his cheeks, he attributes it to the high.

\---

Someone told Morgana. He doubts it was Merlin. Actually, he knows it wasn’t, because some had also snitched on Merlin. He thinks it must’ve been Leon, who genuinely was concerned about the pair. Merlin blames Gwen, or Lance. And Percival. Or Elyan. Maybe even Gwaine and Mordred. He’s convinced it was an office wide-no! Companywide scheme to wreck his progress on the duel Avalon and Albion programs.

Arthur disagrees. He thinks Morgana knew the whole time, but that Merlin popping pills while Arthur smoked under a camera probably got them busted. He doesn’t say anything, just sits in the cold waiting room, hands in his pockets, as Merlin paces and rants and altogether loses his mind. Arthur wants a cigarette. Wants the burn in his lungs and he itches with it, just a bit, but nothing like Merlin.

“They can’t do this.” Merlin’s hand trembles, just a bit, as he knots it in the bird nest atop his head.

“They can, actually.” He doesn’t know this for sure, but he’s grumpy and taking the piss out of Merlin seems to sooth him, just a bit. Merlin turns wild eyes on him hands clenching and unclenching, and for just a moment Arthur is worried he might actually be struck. Instead, Merlin slumps into the chair beside him, both knees furiously bouncing. He mutters to himself, and then digs around in his sock, fingers sliding under his tongue shortly after. Arthur raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

He could use one himself, but he doesn’t crave it. Just a cigarette. Maybe a sip of something.

“I am. You know. An addict.” Merlin says it in the syrup-slow voice that means the pill is working. “Have been for a while.”

“Congratulations. I am not.” He doesn’t think cigarettes really count.

Merlin shrugs, rolling his shoulders, and then someone comes out in a white coat and takes Merlin away. Drug test, and the immediate panic in Merlin’s shoulders makes him laugh so hard he thinks he might pee himself. Probably would not help his case.

\---

This place is not rehab. He isn’t sure where Morgana has stuck him, trying to avoid scandal or whatever, but this is not rehab. First off, the bastards paired him in a room with Merlin. Second, they fucking won’t give him anything to help. Third, he’s almost certain nurses aren’t supposed to be so gleeful when ruining lives. But Sophia and Elena rouse him every morning and force him to breakfast. They nothing but smiles and giggles and casual flirting. With each other though, not him.

He has it better than Merlin. He hadn’t even thrown up, and the tremors don’t stop him from doing anything. He’s grumpy and nauseated, and he can’t sleep, but he’s fine. Really. If he has to stop half a mile in, it’s because he hasn’t run in weeks and if he cannot sleep it is because of Merlin and if he throws the fucking pastels across the art room it is because he absolutely hates water colors.

Fuck it all, what he wouldn’t give for a single puff of nicotine.

When they aren’t harassing him about his childhood or prodding his feelings, he hides in his room. As much as they’ll let him. Merlin is in there most hours of the day. Arthur watches him shake on the bed, watches as he struggles for the trashcan on the floor, as he vomits on the sheets, on his pillow, on himself. Merlin cries. Often and loudly, and some days Arthur worries he’s going to die, but Merlin bit him when he tried to angle his head towards the trash can, so he mostly just tries to think over the sounds.

\---

Arthur makes a friend. His name is Tristian, and he’s brilliant and charming. He won’t give Arthur cigarettes, because he claims the smell gives him migraines, but he smuggles him airplane bottles of vodka and tiny blue pills. He also has the drug testing schedule. Sometimes, when Elena and Sophia are off shift, and George and Gauis are, Tristian shows Arthur which broom closets are good for disposing of evidence. And for hooking up. Tristian isn’t at all his type, but he’s bored and he’s horny, and honestly a mouth is a mouth. During one of these afternoons, Tristian pokes him and breaks the weird companion ship they had built up. “So. What’s your kink?”

Arthur snorts and zips himself up. “I don’t have one.”

Tristian rolls his eyes. “Mhm. Right…”

Arthur scowls. “I don’t. My sister didn’t like me smoking so she hung my job over my head.”

Tristian nods, but clearly doesn’t believe him. “You came in with the Emrys kid, right? Man. He must’ve been into some shit. They finally got him up walking a few days ago, but he looks rough.”

Arthur picks imaginary lint from his shirt. “Nothing too bad. Just benzos and booze, I think.”

Tristian snorts. “Man, he’s gonna be an easy sell then. Easier, even, than you.”

Arthur can’t explain it, but he doesn’t want Tristian providing to Merlin. And he really does not want Merlin paying Tristian back. “What about you? What’s your kink?”

Tristian grins broadly. “Ah, my friend. I’m here for the gooood stuff. Opioids.”

He must look as shocked as he feels, because Tristian laughs. “I come in before it gets bad. Get clean, live straight a while. Can’t seem to shake them though, as a physical therapist. Easy access. I try not to get too bad though. Withdrawals are a bitch.”

\---

Tristian won’t give to Merlin. Which, odd, because Merlin is definitely willing to prostitute himself for anything at this point. In fact, they come to blows over it. It is slightly Arthur’s fault.

He’d bummed a pinch of vodka off Tristian. They’d had a triste in the broom shed and then Arthur had gone to his room to indulge. Merlin was asleep, he’d thought. The guy had practically gone mad though, and Arthur had told him his source, and how to pay.

He hadn’t been in the craft room when it had happened, but he’d heard Merlin shrieking down the halls, and he’d seen the blood on both faces, and their fist. Neither of them rat on him though, so when Merlin comes back to their room face swollen and body vibrating, Arthur quietly passes him a few of the pills he’d stock piled. Merlin scarfs them down like a starved man.

He vomits a few hours later, and Arthur goes to get a nurse, but Merlin weeps and begs him not to. He’s freezing, when Merlin’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

He is only worried Merlin will choke on his own bile, he tells himself. That is why he crawls under the scratchy blanket and wraps his arms around Merlin. He spends the whole night guiding Merlin’s head over the trash and trying to rub warmth into his bones.

The next morning Arthur dumps everything he owns into a random bin.

\---

Arthur’s recovery is less about his own recovery, and more about the ghost-pale man in the bed next to his. He coaxes Merlin up for breakfast and drags him on walks around the gardens and guides bird-bone fingers over water-color mountains. He stays in Merlin’s bed, because he worries about him choking again and Merlin shivers all the time despite Arthur plying him with his own sweats and blankets.

Sometimes he talks to Merlin. He tells him about his childhood, and his father’s insane control. How he and Morgana would coordinate stories about after school events so they could have a moment of freedom. He tells him about trips to the lake behind his house, where he smoked his first cigarette with a beautiful ginger whose name he never learned, despite moonlight make outs at fourteen. He tells him about the breakdown he had in a premed class, and how the busty college councilor prescribed him Xanax. He tells him how much he hates wine and beer and rum, but he loves vodka, and he can’t ever remember anything when he drinks tequila.

Merlin says very little. Occasionally he tells him about Will, his childhood friend and first lover. Will didn’t smoke or drink. He was Catholic, but that wasn’t why he didn’t. He just didn’t like the smell, or the taste.

“Why Xanax, Merlin?”

Merlin shakes beside him. “It makes me feel empty.”

Arthur ponders that, fingers lazily tracing codes into Merlin’s stomach. “Most people take drugs to feel something, not nothing.”

“Is that why you do?” Merlin’s fist clench in Arthur’s shirt.

“No. I don’t actually know why I do, except people keep giving it to me.” Merlin gives a particularly violent shudder beneath him, so Arthur grips his hips and weighs him down with his own body.

“Why do you drink, Arthur?”

He is a little distracted by the warm wet breath on his neck, but he tries to answer. “Don’t really know. Why does anyone?”

Merlin huffs a laugh. “Because it’s fun? Because of the buzz? Because after a point, you don’t feel anything.”

Arthur frowns. “Why are you so obsessed with numbness?”

Merlin doesn’t answer. He just burrows his head in Arthur’s chest. For a while it is silent in the room, and then Merlin sniffs and Arthur is aware of the wet spot growing on his shirt. He doesn’t mention it, but he does hold Merlin tighter and strokes his back.

They don’t bring up their issues after that for a while.

\---

It turns out, Arthur is surprisingly good at running when he isn’t struggling to breath. He runs as much as they’ll let him and it feels good to sweat and somehow he finds that he doesn’t itch as much. He still finds himself shoving his thumb in his mouth and gnawing when he’s anxious or when they pry into his childhood, or when Merlin shuts him out and won’t speak to anyone and just sobs. His fingers bleed a little when Merlin kicks him out of his bed, so he gets up earlier and runs longer and faster and chews pencils and ice and celery.

He begins to talk about his job. He likes it, surprisingly. He doesn’t regret not being a doctor, but he wishes his father had been around to see how successful he and his sister were so that maybe he’d be proud. He wishes he had told his father about his sexuality, and that he wasn’t so prone to casual hook ups and that he didn’t immediately shut down when things didn’t go perfectly.

He works through it. Sort of. He still maintains he was never an addict.

\---

Merlin wakes him up one night. Arthur doesn’t know exactly how, if it was his breathing or if he sobbed or what, but Arthur bolts out of bed and Merlin is bleeding and digging his fingers into his wrist and Arthur tries to grip him tight, to hold him, and stroke his hair, and whisper in his ear, but Merlin only dissolves further into hysterics and so Arthur finds a nurse.

They release Arthur a few days later, and he wants to ask after Merlin, who never returned to their room, but he knows he won’t get any answers.

Instead, he returns to work. He goes for a morning run and an evening run, and during his smoke breaks he listens to jazz and stretches at his desk. He doesn’t manage to stop worrying about deadlines, but he does stop rushing through his code, and he’s more inclined to ask for help when he gets stuck instead of flipping his keyboard.

He spends time with Leon and Percival and Gwaine, enough to suggest the latter two get drinks on their own sometime. Morgana sometimes joins him and Leon, and when they get flirty, he excuses himself and jogs to a corner market to get fresh ingredients. He’s learning to curb some of his cravings by cooking. Some things he makes are disgusting, but some are good enough that he invites his sister and his friends around and they all seem to enjoy it.

He asks Morgana about Merlin, just once, and she smiles a little sadly. “He’ll be back soon.” She brushes his shoulder. “Be careful with him, Arthur. He didn’t grow up like us.”

\---

Arthur cannot let that statement go, so he researches. He scours google and Facebook and twitter and yearbooks. What he finds… He feels guilty for looking. Merlin lived in a town just an hour from him by car, but worlds apart by privilege. He vaguely remembers stories from that town, of families who lost mothers and fathers in the dead of nights to random shootings. Of kids snatched from streets in broad daylight, of teens sold under neon lights.

Merlin’s name only appears in a few articles. One about losing both parents in a freak robbery, the day after his sister disappeared on the way home from school. One where he won a fancy scholarship based on his scores to a technical institute, and a police report where his partner had beat him pretty bad. It doesn’t say why, but Arthur figures someone was jealous that Merlin was getting out.

\---

The weather is cold and dreary when Merlin returns to work. He’s thin, so thin he might disappear if he turns sideways. He is still fidgety, but Arthur thinks it might be more a personality quirk than a withdrawal tick. He is quiet and withdrawn, but he joins Arthur during smoke breaks. He doesn’t stretch, just fiddles with a pencil and sometimes does half-sketches of Arthur.

Sometimes he can be convinced to join the group on nights out, and he even seems to enjoy them, just a bit. If he is a little withdrawn, Arthur chalks it up to him being more introverted.

\---

The first time the kiss, Arthur had invited him over and cooked. Something simple, chicken and bright vegetables and a spicy sauce. They drink fizzy water and sit too close, but it’s good. He doesn’t even think Merlin means to kiss him, really.

But Merlin’s lips are warm and soft and his fingers are gentle and his teeth sharp. It doesn’t escalate, though they both want it too. Merlin is not completely okay, and Arthur doesn’t want to push too hard.

Merlin talks to him that night, curled on the couch. He tells him about Will, who never really was okay with Merlin’s habits. Who didn’t want Merlin leaving. Who, despite being gay was devoutly religious Will, with his volatile streak who was extremely opposed to late nights, and sketchy alleyways, and never having electricity because Merlin needed something to take the edge off.

Arthur doesn’t add anything, just strokes his hair.

\---

They settle into something comfortable. Merlin comes over three nights a week, and they cook together. Merlin doesn’t run but in the evenings, and Arthur poses for sketches, but only in his clothes. They don’t have sex, because neither of their therapist think they’re ready, but Merlin likes to sleep in Arthur’s shirts and Arthur loves the way Merlin stretches across the whole bed.

Some days Merlin is moody and distant and he lashes out if Arthur so much as looks at him. Other days, Arthur is twitchy and he can’t keep his thumbs out of his mouth and he gripes because Merlin spent actual money they earned on actual cardboard cut outs of actually pointless animals. But mostly, Arthur would say they’re doing okay. A year, and then two pass.

\---

He knows Merlin is pulling away, is absent more than he is present. He assumes it is because this is around the time the first article was published. Merlin won’t talk to him, and he stops running with him. Sometimes, he comes over and he has just showered, despite it being the middle of a Saturday. Arthur tries to be subtle as he checks his breath, but either Merlin is really good at covering the smell or he’s not doing anything.

Arthur tries not to worry. And then it is Valentine ’s Day, and he is sitting on his own in a beautiful restaurant, with a simple black band in his pocket. He calls Merlin’s phone, and the Lance and Gwen because they live in the same building, and then he is banging on the door to Merlin’s flat. Lance manages to break the handle, and Arthur might actually scream when he sees the crumpled form.

Gwen calls an ambulance. Arthur rides with him while Lance makes calls. The doctors can’t tell much, except that he overdoes. They don’t know on what, or how much, or if he’ll wake up. Arthur sits by him for a week, and the Merlin wakes up, disoriented and confused. He doesn’t remember taking anything, or that it is February. He remembers New Years, and fighting with Arthur about holiday plans, but not much else.

Arthur weeps, and Merlin begs him not to break up with him. Merlin goes back to rehab, and Arthur calls once a week, and writes him letters. He runs by the same corner market where he used to buy his menthols, and he wanders in. He stands in front of the counter for a long time, and then buys a bar of chocolate and leaves.

Merlin gets out a few months later, and this time there is color in his cheeks and he’s a little softer. Arthur cannot count his ribs. He sits Arthur down and says “I’m quitting the company.” Arthur nods.

“What will you do?”

Merlin traces designs in the table. “Morgana and Leon have a friend, Mithian, who owns a studio near here. She’s going to take me on as a teacher, and she is going to try and help me sell some of my works.”

Arthur nods. There is still a black band in his pocket. There has been every day since Valentine’s Day. Merlin loops teary eyed, and he is careful not to brush Arthur’s fingers. “I understand if you need space, and I’ll respect it, but please don’t give up on me.”

Arthur says nothing. He simply grabs the hand, still bird-boned and cold, and slips the ring on. He quirks a brow, and Merlin is laughing and crying, and then he’s in his lap and his lips are warm and chapped and what they do is so much better than anything Arthur ever did in that closet.

\---

Arthur still maintains he was not an addict. To anything but cigarettes. But he acknowledges that he might have had problems with alcohol. He still takes Xanax on occasion, when he really is anxious and afraid, but he is very careful to take only what he needs.

Merlin is very careful, because he was most definitely an addict. He and Arthur agree not to hide the Xanax, but if Merlin is ever feeling dangerous, he promises to talk to someone, anyone first. Neither of them drink. When they go out with friends everyone is very kind when they order teas or smoothies or coffees. Their apartment, small and cozy, and between

Arthur’s office and Merlin’s studio, always has a stash of gum.

Sometimes it is Arthur coaxing Merlin through bouts of irritability or emptiness. Holding him tight, and rubbing heat into his skin, and kissing feeling into the emptiness of his mind.

Others, it is Merlin, reminding Arthur that it is okay to mess up, and that he needs to breathe through his issues instead of throwing things. He pulls Arthur’s hands from his mouth and kisses short nails and lets him drum his frustration into his hips.

They are not perfect, not by a long shot, and some days Arthur worries they’ll always need a therapist. But what they have is good and stable and full. He doesn’t know if it matters how he labels himself, because the truth is he survived something. He survived his own destruction and he survived Merlin’s. He watched as Merlin survived self-destruction, and the repercussions of Arthur's destruction. They are, in a manner, survivors.

He doesn’t need a label other than that, except for maybe Arthur Pendragon-Emrys.

 


End file.
